Iron and Blood (12 page)

“As soon as I clean up, I’ll be back. Don’t want to upset Mrs. Desmet.” He gave Jake a broad wink. “Mr. Brand didn’t think it safe for you to return to your house, so he had me gather up some of your things and move them into your old room here. Don’t worry—I’ve got men watching your place. It’s taking a risk, having everyone in the same place like this, but it’s just easier to make sure you’re all safe if the family is in one spot. And George has moved me into the loft above the carriage house—he figured things would get messy.”

“You don’t think the rifle will upset Mother?” Jake asked. “Henry is sure to have a stroke when he sees it.”

“Promise?” Kovach asked with a wicked grin. “Sorry. But I couldn’t resist.”

“No offense taken,” Jake assured him. “At least, not by me.”

Kovach went around to the rear of the house while the carriage driver took the coach further down the driveway. Jake drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders, stalling for time.

The Desmet home was modest by comparison with some of the grandest homes on Shadyside’s Fifth Avenue. It was a stately house in the Second Empire style, with a mansard roof capping its third floor, edged with a decorative iron trim. The home was made of stone, with paired columns around the entrance and sweeping stone stairs. A short brick and stone wall, waist high, separated the semi-circular coach drive from Fifth Avenue’s sidewalk.

Jake had always thought the house looked more light-hearted than its larger, more expensive and more imposing neighbors, but now, even the house was in mourning. A large boxwood wreath festooned with black crepe hung on the door. A large black ribbon adorned the door knob and knocker, reminding visitors to knock softly. The windows were open, but the curtains were drawn, making the house seem more still and dark than Jake could ever recall.

A chill settled over him as he climbed the steps. Usually, he looked forward to returning home, either to his parents’ house or to his own smaller brownstone on one of Shadyside’s pleasant side streets. Now he felt nothing but dread.

The door opened at his first knock. Wilfred, the family’s long-time butler, opened the door. When it came to Wilfred, Jake always thought that the term ‘butler’ did not really fit. Wilfred was the glue that made the center hold, as discreet as a diplomat, and as efficient as a general.

“Welcome home, Mr. Desmet.”

Jake swallowed hard. “Thank you, Wilfred.”

“My condolences on your loss.” Wilfred’s voice had the impassivity of a professional butler, but there was a note of real grief behind his words, an emotion unmistakable in his eyes. Wilfred had been with the family since before Jake’s birth, and, in their own way, Wilfred and Jake’s father had been closer friends than their roles might suggest.

“Thank you,” Jake replied. Down the hallway, the soft buzz of conversation from the parlor stopped, and quick footsteps came their way.

Henry barreled down the hall, annoyance clear on his face. “Where the hell have you been, Jake?” he snapped, barely keeping his voice down.

Henry Desmet was five years older than Jake, but several inches shorter. He took after their mother’s side of the family in looks and build, unlike Jake, who was an echo of his father. Jake had always attributed his brother’s controlling ways to his short stature, like Napoleon.

With effort, Jake kept his temper leashed. “You know damn well where I’ve been.”

“You couldn’t be home sooner?”

Jake took a deep breath. “I can’t control how long it takes to cross the Atlantic. We got here as quickly as we could.”

“No, Rick and Nicki got here quickly. You took your time.”

Jake was about to reply when another voice carried down the hallway. “Jake? Is that you?”

“I’ll be right there, Mother,” Jake replied. He went to step around Henry, but Henry grabbed his arm.

“I don’t know how you persuaded George to do it, but it’s not fair!” Henry protested.

Jake shook off his hold and straightened his suit coat. “I didn’t ‘persuade’ George to do anything,” he replied sotto voce. “And it wasn’t George’s decision—it was Father’s. George just broke the news.”

“I could challenge you in court.”

Jake met Henry’s gaze. “Get over yourself, Henry. Father chose what he thought would be best for the business—you in New York, and me in the crosshairs. I’m not whining about getting shot at; stop complaining about getting to sit in a nice, safe Laight Street office.”

“You’d better not louse up the big contract I’ve got pending,” Henry said with a glower. “Richard Thwaites. New Pittsburgh money, spends a lot of time in New York, very interested in using our services.”

Jake leveled a hard glance at Henry. “Really? With everything that’s been going on, all you can think about is a business deal?”

“Is there a problem, Jake?” Kovach stood just outside the servant’s entrance to the kitchen. He had changed his clothes, and now wore a long duster over fresh pants and a shirt. Jake would have bet money that there was a rifle beneath the duster, and probably a Colt Peacemaker or two in his belt.

Henry muttered a curse. “I’ll let this go—for now—out of deference to Mother. But I’m not going to go away.”

Jake shouldered past Henry and gave a nod to Kovach. Wilfred, who had witnessed the entire exchange without reaction, led Jake into the parlor.

Rick rose to greet Jake as he entered, a questioning look on his face. Jake gave him the briefest of smiles, just enough to let Rick know everything was as right as it could be. They’d been friends long enough that they could almost read each other’s thoughts, useful in negotiations when they couldn’t speak. Jake surreptitiously passed off the list of names George had given him and whispered, “Nicki,” before turning to take in the room.

The argument with Henry had distracted Jake from the changes inside the house, but there was no mistaking the alterations to the parlor. Black cloth was draped over the large mirror, and on photographs and paintings, to keep the spirit of the deceased from being caught in a reflection. Other photographs had been laid face down, to protect those pictured from the angel of death. The clock on the mantel had been stopped at the precise time of Thomas Desmet’s death. Jake caught a whiff of embalmer’s fluid even over the profusion of lilies and bouquets that filled one side of the room.

Thomas Desmet’s body lay in an oak casket atop a cooling board at the eastern end of the room. A wealth of flowers surrounded the casket. Jake caught his breath as he faced the unavoidable truth.

“Jake!” Catherine Desmet rose to greet him as Jake crossed the floor in two quick strides and swept his mother up in his arms. Rick stepped aside and rejoined Nicki in hushed conversation. Catherine was dressed in full mourning: a somber dress of Henrietta cloth with lawn cuffs and collar, trimmed in crepe with jet buttons. Her strawberry-blonde hair was pinned up in a severe knot covered with a widow’s cap. Her mourning bonnet, weeping veil, gloves and kerchief lay nearby, should callers outside the closest circle of family and friends arrive.

“I’m so sorry,” Jake murmured in her ear. He kissed her cheek, and swallowed a lump in his throat.

Catherine took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, taking a step back. “I’m sorry your homecoming had to be on such a dark occasion.” She looked to have aged years just in the few weeks Jake had been gone.

Catherine led Jake to sit beside her on a high-backed sofa. Rick and Nicki sat across from them, and Jake realized that both had changed into proper mourning attire. Rick’s suit was full black, with a black armband and pocket handkerchief. Nicki’s gown was a somber echo of the dress Catherine wore, trimmed in lawn and crepe.

“Henry made arrangements for the funeral to take place tomorrow,” Catherine said. Her voice was strong, but there was an uncharacteristic rasp to it. “The servants and I have been taking turns sitting up with Thomas,” she said, avoiding a glance toward the casket. “Our friends have been so good about stopping by,” she added.

“Adam Farber’s been by, asking for you,” Rick said with a pointed glance at Jake. “I dare say Cullan will stop in tomorrow, once he’s gotten the
Princess
safely berthed and the repairs underway. Renate Thalberg also stopped by. We took a walk around the gardens.”

Meaning that Renate put a warding on the perimeter,
Jake thought.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she put down salt or smudged sage. Best if Mother doesn’t know.
Though Renate’s magic might run afoul of Jake’s Presbyterian upbringing, he found comfort in her actions, and relief that, if his father’s killer had used magic, Renate’s wardings might add another layer of protection.

“She also left a gift for your mother,” Rick said. He gestured to a black velvet pouch on a side table. On it lay a jet amulet in the shape of a triquetra, an overlapping triangular knot. Catherine and others would see a symbol of the Trinity; both Rick and Jake recognized it as a much older symbol of protection.

“That was very kind of her,” Jake said.

Catherine laid her hand over Jake’s. “You’ll be home now for a bit at least, won’t you?”

“It depends on the business, but I’ll do my best,” he said, wondering if either George or Henry had given her the news of his promotion.

She squeezed his hand. “It’s a comfort that you and Henry can be here with me.” Catherine glanced toward the doorway, where Henry was chastising one of the servants about some imagined slight. “And I trust that you’ll use all due caution finding the person responsible for the curse that killed your father,” she said, dropping her voice.

Jake choked. Rick’s eyes widened and Nicki barely repressed a gasp. Catherine regarded them all with a raised eyebrow.

“You know?” Jake managed when he regained his voice.

“Of course I know.” Catherine sat up, her back ramrod straight. “George was your father’s public business partner. I have always been a silent partner.” Given that it had been money from Catherine’s inheritance that had helped to fund Desmet’s portion of Brand and Desmet, that made sense, Jake thought. Her family made their money from the sale of corn whiskey in the years after the Whiskey Rebellion.

“So you also know… about Henry?”

A faint smile touched the corners of Catherine’s lips. “Yes, indeed. Your father and I discussed succession plans at length, before sharing them with George.” She paused, seeming to enjoy his surprise. “That goes for the more specialized acquisitions as well.”

Jake felt winded. Rick appeared at a loss for words. Nicki, the family’s most vocal supporter for women’s suffrage, attempted to look both decorously somber and gleeful at the same time.

“Andreas came by late on the night Thomas died,” Catherine went on, keeping one eye on Henry to make certain he was preoccupied. “Wilfred helped him place protective wards around the house. He was quite worried about the family. Renate has since reinforced those wards.”

Jake felt as if the world had tilted. He had known his parents were close, but had never imagined that their confidences ran to the details of the business or otherworldly connections.

“I’ve been on the edge of my seat since Harold’s telegram,” Catherine added. “I’m glad you’re back safely.”

“Harold sent a telegram to you?” Jake barely kept his voice down, and looked quickly to make sure Henry had not heard him.

“Really, Jake. He’s a second cousin, on my mother’s side. Who do you think recommended him for the London office?”

“There was another attack on the office, just before we came over,” Jake said. “George is going into hiding after the funeral. Maybe you should consider—”

“Absolutely not,” Catherine replied, lifting her chin defiantly. “I will not be run out of my own home.”

Henry finished chastising the servant and began to walk toward them. Catherine cleared her throat, and for Henry’s benefit suddenly looked distraught and frail. “Reverend McDonald will be coming by tonight for a private service,” Catherine informed him. “Since Nicki and I can’t be at the funeral tomorrow.”

Jake wondered if his mother’s sudden stringent propriety had more to do with remaining within Andreas’s wardings than with the easily offended sensibilities of their Shadyside neighbors. Among New Pittsburgh’s elite, it was not unheard of for women to attend the funeral service itself, though some of the older women kept to the more rigid British customs and remained home. Jake had no doubt that Catherine was doing exactly as she pleased, and that she had her reasons for doing so.

“I’ve made all the arrangements,” Henry said, giving Jake a look as if to dare him to argue. “I’ve hired the best funeral company in the city to handle the procession from the church to Homewood Cemetery. It’ll be a proper affair,” he said, looking quite satisfied. “We’ll have their nicest hearse and horses, plus their best carriage for us to follow the hearse.”

“I left it up to Mark to hire the mutes,” Catherine added off-handedly. “He’s taken care of it, and assured me we’ll have quite a few, as befitted Thomas’s position.” Jake and Rick exchanged a knowing look. Mutes were professional mourners, retained to help set the mood and add pomp to the procession. If Kovach had been responsible for hiring them, Jake was willing to bet they’d be riflemen in disguise.

“All the details are in place, right down to the funeral biscuits,” Henry declared. “I think Father would have been pleased.”

Father would have been appalled,
Jake thought, knowing how much his father detested conspicuous displays of affluence. He did not doubt that Henry had made his plans to win the approval of his high-society friends in New York City.

“Did I mention that my dear friend Ida telegraphed to let me know she will be here next week?” Catherine mentioned, making small talk for Henry’s sake since they could say little of consequence with Jake’s older brother in earshot. “She’ll be back from Paris by then. We’ve known each other since our university days—longer than I care to think about. It will be a comfort to have her visit.”

The knock at the door startled them all. Jake heard Wilfred go to receive the caller, and heard a muffled sound suspiciously like a shotgun round being chambered. Jake tensed, and saw that Rick was ready to spring from his seat.